


Crave You

by LibraOnFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Sex, Dry Humping, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Scent Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraOnFire/pseuds/LibraOnFire
Summary: Again, I have to reiterate that I am terrible at summaries, so here's this awful thing: It's Wincest. They're going to do it. Enjoy. Also, there's a second part to this! Don't forget to follow up with "Crave You Too".





	

**Author's Note:**

> I tried so hard to make this thing have a plot, but basically, I just like to come up with any situation where Sam and Dean end up fucking. I'm just going to admit that and move on. Also, this is not beta read, so any mistakes are my own. Please feel free to point out any errors.

They leave the chaotic constellation of city lights behind them, the twinkling red and green and soft white twinkling and fading from the rear-view mirror until there's only the crisp black of a midnight November road out of town. Like an old saddle, they're familiar with the aches and pains and dirt that come with laying a vengeful spirit to rest. As if on cue, as if the rest of the universe was a silent yet humorous audience, Kansas' Dust in the Wind crackles through the static of an almost tuned in local radio station. The brothers endure it for a little less than a minute before Dean switches it off with a sardonic snort. The next twenty minutes is filled with the soothing symphony of tires on wet pavement, the infrequent and short-lived drone of passing traffic, and the harmony of their own breaths. 

The don't expect the sputter-wheeze and clunk from under the hood that shakes the frame of the car and quickly pull it over onto the shoulder of the road as it gives a very final-sounding hiss. It's barely in park before Dean has a red, greasy rag pulled into his fist from under his seat, a shiny silver instrument in the other hand as if he had it there all along. He hops out with tight lips and a furrowed brow. While Sam would normally scoff at Dean's attachment to the vehicle, he wears a similar frown. This is basically their home and besides, it's never a good idea to park your house on an out-of-the-way road at one in the morning, especially this close to a cemetery you've recently had to vandalize. 

So Sam unfolds himself from the passenger seat and leans into the biting wind to join his brother under the hood. White smoke jutters up and away from some unknown chunk of shadow that Dean currently has the rapidly clicking tool swiveling back and forth through. Sam looks over Dean's shoulder curiously, that desire to learn the parts not quite there but flickering like a lighter in the wind. This sort of thing has always eluded him, much to Dean's amusement. Still. 

“Need a hand?”

“Nah,” Dean huffs over the turned up collar of his coat. “I got it.” 

Sam nods even though Dean can't see him, although he knows Dean knows he has. With a sniff, Sam scoots a little to his right to stand a foot or two behind his brother, hands in his coat pockets with his elbows out. If he can't be helpful under the hood, the least he can do is use his height advantage to block some of the wind. He looks around for a minute before settling on looking up, never quite ready to be done being amazed at all the stars a few dark miles can coax out of the inky sky. He doesn't see the way Dean goes still and only looks back at his brother when he realizes the click-click-clicking of the tool has stopped and Dean's looking over his shoulder at him with an oddly suspicious squint.

He shrugs and widens his stance. “Just blocking the wind.” He lifts his chin in the direction of the engine. “How's it going in there?” 

Dean looks him up and down for a second with something that looks like a guilty glint before turning back to the car with a noncommittal grunt. “'Sgoing, but it doesn't look good so far....” 

Sam wonders how good anything can look if you can't see it, but goes back to the habit of eyeballing their surroundings instead of stargazing, since that's apparently suspect behavior. He notes the direction the wind is blowing first, right in his face, the most straightforward observation at the moment. There's a distinctly wet leaf smell from all around, something like soggy paper and mud. Honeylocust, ash, and a species of oak have grown up thick along either side of the road. Sam thinks he smells water, so there's probably a river or creek nearby. His toes are starting to go cold and he shifts from one foot to the other. This time, he catches the line of Dean's back going tense as he stops working and fixes Sam with an eye. 

“Dude, what?” Sam's hands fly up out of his pockets to present them palms forward. “I'm just standing here.”

Dean backs up out from under the hood and shuts it. “Yeah, well, you were crowding me and now we're stuck here for the night.” Sam does scoff incredulously this time as Dean continues gruffly over him, “We're just going to have to hunker down for a few hours and then I'll walk back to town to get what she needs.” 

Sam gives one last exasperated look to the heavens before he sighs and walks back to the passenger side door with a shake of his head. He barely has a hold of the handle before Dean's leaning over from the driver's side seat, mouth moving noiselessly behind the window as he gestures with his thumb for Sam to take the backseat. He rolls his eyes and complies, jerking open the back door and sliding in unceremoniously. 

Without a word, Dean dumps a flannel blanket over the seat into Sam's lap and immediately turns back around to lie back in his seat, spreading his coat over his torso before shutting his eyes and crossing his arms in his typical “I'm pretending to sleep so you won't talk to me” way. Clearly, something is weighing on Dean's mind and it looks like it'll be a long while before Sam can work it out of him. 

Sam's irritation with his brother tingles under his skin and he grumbles to himself, lifting his long legs up into the seat, back to the door, and curling up as comfortably as possible with his ankles crossed so his boots are against opposite door. He quickly flicks the blanket over himself to stave off the chill that'll soon seep into the car and instantly gets a faceful of Dean's scent. His subconscious reaction takes over and he inhales deeply, letting it warm him up by what feels like ten degrees, his eyes nearly shutting from the familiarity of it. 

Instead of slowing down under the warmth, his heartbeat picks up a little and he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Carefully, lingeringly, he lets his left hand drift downward to the space between his thighs, uses his right hand to curl the blanket up under his chin. He tells himself he's just tucking in there for warmth, for the habit of it. Just getting comfortable. His half-hard dick disagrees but definitely approves. 

Sam peeks up into the rear-view mirror to check if Dean's really asleep yet or not. The set of his mouth says he's out, although the tiny line between his eyebrows says he's awake but too busy in his head to even notice if Daisy Duke were to walk by in a bikini made out of just three Band-Aids. He's never seen anyone get so worked up over a vehicle like Dean does about this one, and he mostly gets it. But he doesn't get why Dean's hackles are up with him and he doesn't want to think about it, just doesn't want to think. Sam considers the risk, inhales lightly and figures it's worth it to rub out at least some of the tension. So he quietly unzips, parting his jeans tooth by metal tooth, until the fly can't go any farther. 

Whether it's the close proximity of his brother or just the thought of possibly getting caught touching himself, a thrill rushes through him and he tucks his chin down to his chest and exhales. His breath puffs up off the blanket and back at him, warm and encouraging, the smell of home and safety drawing him down into this private cocoon of his own body heat. It's like a slow exploration, a quiet tease, relearning his length as he gently palms himself before curling his fingers around his naked cock. It's hot compared to his fingers and he suppresses a shiver with the first drawn out stroke. 

A car speeds by and he insinctively stills his hand, knuckles cool against the warm flesh of his inner thighs. He looks up into the rear-view mirror just as Dean shifts in his seat. Sam watches, eyes glued to the reflection of his brother. Dean sighs deeply, licks his lips, head turned so his cheek is against the headrest. Without thinking too much about it, Sam slides his hand upward, barely touching, as if it doesn't actually count as masturbating to his brother's reflection if he's not doing it thoroughly. He licks his own lips on a downward stroke, swallowing heavily. The curl of his hand and pinky brush against his balls, setting off a rush of sensation that starts from his toes and goes right up his back. 

He has to bite his lip and squeeze the base of his cock when Dean moves with a soft, sleepy grunt. Sam shuts his eyes, the smell of Dean everywhere as he regretfully tucks himself away. He zips up his jeans as quietly as possible and decides it isn't worth Dean catching him, ever, but especially not tonight when he's pissed about the car and pissed at Sam for whatever reason. Sam grinds his teeth in frustration and huffs a sigh. 

“Gotta piss,” he grumbles toward his probably sleeping brother and flips the blanket off of himself. The cold air hits him and he grouses inwardly as he pulls himself out of the car and into the real chill. The cold eats up the creak and slam of the door, twists the white of his breath up and away, scattering it like salt on the wind. There's frost on everything already, leaves crunching loudly as he walks a few feet into the treeline to pretend to pee. He paces for a bit, arms around himself and shoulders hunched against the grab of freezing air. Now that he's alone, now that he has a damn minute to himself, he starts thinking. Starts realizing that Dean glaring at him suspiciously or even leaving whatever space they're sharing isn't new, not judging by the last month or so. 

Now that he thinks about it, it kind of pisses him off. Does Dean think there's something wrong with him again? He has his soul back. He's been off demon blood for a long time. What's Dean's problem now? Is he finally starting to regret picking him up that night from school in California? Sam's thoughts swirl dizzyingly and he can't tell if he's having an anxiety attack or reaching a monumental level of angry. Maybe both. Probably both. Either way, Sam doesn't care if Dean's asleep or not, he's getting answers, now. He sets his jaw, clenches his hands in his jacket pockets, and stalks off toward the car. 

At the treeline, three feet from the car, he stops cold in his tracks. The windshield is slightly foggy, but Sam can see from here in through the passenger side window and he can immediately see that Dean's definitely not asleep. He's apparently very much awake. He's also apparently very busy. With himself. Under his coat. With half of the flannel blanket bunched up in one hand, pressed against his nose, the other half trailing over the back of the seat. Sam almost turns away, because he doesn't need answers that damn bad, but Dean opens his eyes just then, zeroes right in on him and then he's losing it, eyes squeezing shut again, mouth open and panting. Sam can't hear anything besides the rush of his blood in his ears and the _thumpthumpthumpthumpthump_ of his own racing heartbeat, but there's no mistaking the shape of his name on his brother's lips, whether he hears it or not. 

Well. Maybe that does answer a few things. The heat of his anger transmutes into arousal, floods low in his belly and pulses through him as he makes up his mind and he crosses those last few feet with a single long-legged stride. It's almost like magic when he reaches for the passenger side door, it's open with barely a touch, and he's sliding across the seat to reach as much of his brother as he can. Dean yelps as Sam nearly pulls him up out of his seat, maneuvers him so he's face down, the smell of his own release and the leather of the seat compounded when he's literally face-first in it. He's sweating and swearing and Sam absolutely loves it. It fills the car with a heady fog of Dean and danger, and damn if that doesn't get Sam from zero to 60 in .5 seconds. 

Sam's bent low over his brother, revels in the mantra-like string of cuss words and his name coming from Dean's mouth. He steadies himself with one hand on the seat next to Dean's face and uses the other to jerk the waist of Dean's already unzipped jeans down to the damp bend of his knees. He curls his hand around Dean's hip and grinds himself against the plush of Dean's ass, already panting before he can even get his dick out. 

“Been so long, Sammy,” Dean gasps, arching downward and thrusting back against Sam. “Been wantin' you for so long,” he pants. Sam can't even answer, his mouth hanging open, trying to focus on just breathing, on the friction they're creating. His hand on Dean's hip helps set the pace, the force at which he wishes he could be fucking into his brother. 

That seems to be communication enough for Dean, who honest-to-god moans, turns his face so his forehead rests against his forearm and just keeps pushing back and back and back. Sam knows Dean's already come and won't again for a while, but he can barely hang on anyhow, hips set on auto pilot, rolling tight and shallow while Dean rides the thick denim outline of his cock. Sam hangs on just a little longer, then feels the electricity of his orgasm thread up through him, expects the hairs on his arms to stand up with the sensation of it crackling through him like lightning. He comes with a stifled groan, fingers tightening around the jut of Dean's hip, a hot wet spot saturating the fabric around his zipper. 

Sam swallows thickly, chest heaving, arms and knees shaky as he rests his forehead between Dean's shoulder blades. Dean bucks under him impatiently with a grunt, so Sam slides back into his seat, wipes at the front of his jeans with the red rag Dean tosses him, flushed and a little nervous now that the moment is over. 

“Well,” Dean drawls, a sly half-smile curving his lips. “Guess it's a good thing that I'm the one heading back to town, huh.” He drags the flannel blanket up from the floorboard and spreads it across their laps. He leans back into his seat, head resting against the window. Sam is quiet, unsure of what to say. Dean beats him to it. “'Sfine, Sammy. We'll talk in the morning.” 

And he crosses his arms in that, “I'm pretending to sleep so you won't talk to me” way, which is kind of fine by Sam at the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out the sequel, "Crave You Too". http://archiveofourown.org/works/8648263


End file.
